Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Edwina
I told myself I’d go home, peel off the heels, wash off the makeup, and collapse into bed with nothing but exhaustion for company.
That’s what a rational version of me would have done.
Instead, an hour later, I was clutching a full bottle of wine, its glass cold against my palm, as if its weight alone could still the storm trembling through my hands.
My coat hung loose over my shoulders, my curls uncoiling, my lips painted with the fading stain of nerves and recklessness.
I didn’t remember making the choice. My body obeyed a pull older than thought, drawn to where I needed to be before reason could intervene.
The street was quiet, shadows stretching long against the pale wash of streetlights.
My heels struck the pavement in sharp, unrelenting beats until they stopped, until I stood before the door of the building I wasn’t supposed to know existed.
But I did. Because weeks ago, when Zayn had dug into Professor Stone’s life like the curious little hacker he was, I had seen the address in his notes.
I shouldn’t have memorized it. I shouldn’t have let it burn itself into my memory.
And yet here, I was standing on the step, wine bottle dangling my fingers, heart hammering, pulse shaking through my wrists.
I didn’t change. Not the blouse clinging to my skin, not the black skirt hugging my thighs, not the heels that had been tormenting me since morning. I wanted to be bare of all excuses, stripped down to the exact version of myself he had seen hours ago.
When my knuckles rapped against the door, once, twice, then a third time, the sound seemed to crack open something I could never take back. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I knew I was here.
The door creaked open before I could talk myself into running.
He stood there, no sharp suit, no polished armor.
Just a black t-shirt and dark jeans, casual enough to disarm but only making him more dangerous, more unreachable.
His glasses still framed those sharp eyes, and when they landed on me, they didn’t move.
He looked carved from shadow and restraint, and yet there was a flicker in his gaze that stripped me bare.
His mouth tugged into a slow, merciless smirk, “I didn’t know you had stalkerish habits,” he murmured, the words curling through the air, thin and languid as smoke, with amusement and something far sharper.
His eyes dropped to the stilettos, then slid up the line of my skirt, pausing on the blouse that clung too tight, before finally returning to my face.
He raised a bow. “Tell me, Edwina, what exactly are you doing here, dressed as every forbidden thought I’ve ever had? ”
My breath caught, shame and desire colliding in my chest. I wanted to answer. I wanted to run. I wanted both at once.
For a moment, he only watched me, his hand braced against the doorframe, his body a barrier I wasn’t sure I could cross without unraveling completely. Then, with a slow tilt of his head, he stepped back.
“Come in, Edwina,” he said, voice low enough to vibrate in my chest. “If you’re going to haunt my doorstep in heels and temptation, the least I can do is offer you a place to sit.”
I hesitated, the weight of the night pressing down on me, every nerve screaming at me to turn and run.
But my legs disobeyed. They carried me forward, past him, past the warmth radiating from his body, into the dim apartment that smelled faintly of leather, books, and something darker I couldn’t name.
The door clicked shut behind me. The sound echoed as a verdict.
I didn’t dare turn around, but I felt him close, the weight of his gaze moving over me in measured silence.
I shifted the bottle in my hand, the glass cool against my palm.
“I came to celebrate,” I said, finally turning enough to glance at him over my shoulder. “The symposium went well. I thought…” My words faltered under the intensity of his gaze. “I thought maybe you’d want to share a drink.”
His brow arched, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth betraying amusement, “So, you brought contraband and showed up at your professor’s door in the middle of the night,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice brushing over me with the softness of velvet and the edge of a warning.
“Tell me, Edwina, was it the wine you wanted to share, or the company?”
My grip tightened around the bottle, though I already knew the answer. It wasn’t the wine. It was never the wine.
He didn’t wait for me to speak. His fingers brushed the bottle, sliding deliberately over mine as he took it from me, setting it aside on the counter with unhurried care. When his hand lingered, grazing the inside of my wrist, a shiver coursed through me so sharp I almost forgot how to breathe.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
My eyes darted around the space as if searching for air.
His apartment was not what I expected, minimal but not impersonal, shelves lined with worn books, a leather chair angled near the window, the faint smell of coffee and cedar clinging to the air.
It was disarmingly intimate, too much of him everywhere, and I suddenly felt like an intruder trespassing where I didn’t belong.
But then his voice pulled me back, deep, rough, threaded with something that felt far too dangerous to ignore. “So… this is how you celebrate?” he asked, each word unhurried, heavy with amusement. “You show up at my door uninvited, carrying wine, hoping I’ll open it?”
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, but dark enough to make my stomach twist. “Mind?” he echoed, stepping closer, his movements measured and smooth until the heat of him reached me. “Edwina, the only thing I mind is not knowing if you came here for the drink… or if you came for me.”
My lips parted, but no sound came out. My throat felt tight, my pulse erratic.
“Because if it’s the first,” he continued, his eyes flicking briefly to the unopened bottle before returning to me, “then we’ll drink, toast your success, and keep our hands where they shouldn’t be.” His voice dipped lower, rougher, the edges brushing against me. “But if it’s the second…”
He didn’t finish. The rest of that sentence lived in the space between us, hot and suffocating.
“I…” I tried, my voice faltering. My grip on the strap of my bag tightened. “I just wanted to celebrate.”
“Hmm… did you?” he asked, the sound almost a growl.
His gaze locked onto mine, unwavering and consuming.
“Because you’re still wearing the same clothes, still in those heels that make you curse under your breath, still trembling from nerves you can’t seem to shake.
So tell me, did you walk here trying to convince yourself this was innocent?
Or did you already know I wouldn’t let you leave untouched? ”
Heat rushed up my neck, my chest tightening at the truth threaded through his words.
“Stop twisting my words,” I whispered, though the protest sounded weak, even to me.
He tilted his head, smirking. “I’m not twisting anything, sweetheart. I’m just tugging on the threads you’ve been pulling at since the moment you knocked on my door.”
My breath came faster now, uneven, caught somewhere between defiance and need.
He was too close, his presence eating up every inch of space I thought I had.
When he reached for the bottle, the motion was fluid, confident.
He uncorked it and poured into two glasses, never breaking eye contact.
His fingers brushed mine as he handed me one, a touch too slow, too knowing.
“Congratulations, Edwina,” he murmured, lifting his glass. “On the symposium… and on finally admitting what you want.”
The wine was rich, smooth, but it wasn’t what burned down my throat, it was him, the way his nearness filled the air, the way his voice wrapped around me until I couldn’t tell if I was drinking to still my hands or to keep from touching him.
Silence lingered, thick and charged, before I spoke again. “You know,” I began, tracing the rim of my glass, my voice unsteady but curious, “I don’t understand it. You. Standing here. Alone.”
His brow lifted slightly, eyes narrowing with interest, as a predator indulging prey that had dared to speak. “You don’t understand what, exactly?” he asked, voice calm but edged with curiosity.
I hesitated, then exhaled. “A man like you, handsome, intelligent, infuriatingly self-possessed, why is there no one in your life? A woman. There must have been… plenty.”
A slow smile curved his mouth, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Handsome?” he repeated, his voice dropping, each syllable coated in tease and heat. “Careful, Edwina. If you keep flattering me this way, I might start thinking you came here just to tell me how much you want me.”
His words hung between us, thick and intoxicating, and I suddenly realized, he wasn’t just teasing.
He was warning me. And I was already too far gone to stop.
Heat crept up my neck, prickling along my cheeks, but I refused to look away.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Professor. It’s not just me, the whole campus thinks it. ”
That earned me a laugh, low, rich, the kind that slipped under my skin and made my stomach twist. He leaned in until his breath brushed the edge of my ear, his tone dark with amusement.
“So the campus thinks I’m handsome,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close.
“But you, sweetheart… you just said it out loud.”
I swallowed hard, pulse stuttering as I forced out, “You corner your students with logic tricks now?”
His grin turned wicked, his voice a teasing drawl. “Only the ones I can’t stop fucking thinking about.”